


through the red uncertain dark

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Do not post to another site, Fix it?, Gentleness, Guilt, Illnesses, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Missing Scenes, Period Typical Attitudes, Scurvy, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Survivor Guilt, THE DRESS, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-29 15:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: The spark of fear had been in his blood and it made him want to run, but there was nowhere to run to. There was only Erebus, where the weight of duty was spreading him thin, or the ice, which was waiting to kill him. No, not waiting, the pack was not some malevolent force, it was simply doing as it had done since the dawn of time. It was they who were unnatural and abhorrent.OrJames Fitzjames is straight up not having a good time.





	through the red uncertain dark

**Author's Note:**

> I say this every time, but I researched details in this as well as I could. If there are any glaring mistakes that's on me.
> 
> Thanks again for the Beaniest of Beans for moral support, keeping me in line, and sitting there going "ooh you can use this, oh use that! He looks So unwell omg" while watching The Terror with me at 3am.
> 
> This is a prequel(?) to 'let the river rush in', so it ties into that but you don't need to read this or that to understand either fic.

James did not care for the hold. He was in the minority there he knew; it was both a place for a sailor or marine to get a moment's peace, and a place to conduct the business sailors were well known for. It was also warm, what with the still banked engines and the stove for the heating system nestled down here in the ships bowels, and James did not like to be warm anymore.

He would rather be cold always, have it be his natural state, than be reminded of how it was not. And especially so after Carnivale.

"As soon as the temperature rose we lessened the amount of coal as ordered sir," Mr. Hart, the lead stoker, explained as he wiped his coal smut stained hands on a rag. "Myself an' Mr. Thompson of _ Terror _ discussed it, an' made a trial - as you had given us leave to do as we thought best with the..."

"I did indeed Mr. Hart. You men are most capable, please continue."

"The pipes, sir, become heated themselves through the day, what with the hot air pushing through ‘em, an' we 'ave found that we can drop the amount of coal used even further in the night, as they themselves give out warmth. Along with the sleeping bodies of the men an' the insulted hull…" Mr. Hart hesitated, then pulled a thick, clean cloth from his pocket and held it out to James. "If you please sir, it's dog watch an' the heat is already noticeable."

James took the cloth and slipped past Mr. Hart to grasp the pipe that stretched up towards the orlop. He had carefully wrapped the cloth about his hand, not leaving an inch of skin exposed to the metal (even that had become a danger, becoming frozen to such a degree that it would take ones skin off at the barest touch) and the pipe was indeed noticeably hot. James found himself tightening his grip until it became uncomfortably so, the heat biting at the weathered skin of his palm, and it was only then that he pulled his hand back.

He returned the cloth to Mr. Hart who seemed puzzled in a passing sort of way, and gazed down at the tinged pink sink of his palm before tucking both hands into the small of his back. "Indeed, Mr. Hart. Well spotted on yours and Mr. Thompson's part."

"Thank you sir. We're doing our best to preserve the coal suitable for the stoves to burn when we're on land."

James nodded, clenching his hands as his mind wandered across the ice to the smear of burnt black timbers and canvas and bodies that was the ghost of his folly. He shook himself, and managed to give the stoker a smile. "Excellent Mr. Hart, you have stepped very neatly into Mr. Gregory's shoes. Carry on."

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Hart tugged on his forelock, standing aside to allow James to reach the ladder and ascend from this warm, quiet realm to the chilled, crowded one that was his. 

The grain of the wooden ladder rail was rough against the still tingling palm of his hand, the sensation faint enough that James might have ignored it if he had wished to. Instead he gripped the rail tighter, leaning into the sting as it dragged over his tender skin, welcoming the discomfort. 

*******

"I think that man is pleasant only to you, Jas," Graham had said not long before the ice had closed in on them, watching as Dr.Stanley had strode away from them towards the sickbay.

"What on earth do you mean? He's a perfectly genial fellow," James had said, slipping his cap on as he prepared to head up.

“To _ you_, which is my point,” Graham had placed his foot on the ladder and moved in close enough to James so that they could speak quietly. “I went to him for a pain in my knee and felt like I was a Mid being dressed down. Yet he just urged you to take note of the thermometer with as much kindness as if he were a country doctor.”

“The answer for that is simple, Graham,” James had smiled as he nudged Graham’s leg out of the way, waiting for the ship to roll before he had started up the ladder. “He is an excellent judge of character.”

Graham had laughed at that, the cheerful sound following James up onto the deck. 

He had not then known how dearly he would come to miss the pitching of the ship upon the waves or Graham’s pleasant company. Summer had been set to bring the return of open waters and reassuring movement under ones feet, and Graham had been going to return from his search for leads. Instead, James had been dealt unmovable ice and captaincy with a superior sick with whiskey; all without Sir John’s guidance which had always been reassuring, if in hindsight not always wise, and sorely lacking Graham’s capable, comforting presence.

Dundy and he had eventually fallen into a new icebound rhythm, Sir John’s shoes fully stepped into (or shoe, rather, James had thought one night, and had to muffle laughter that had edged upon the unhinged). That had been when the pain had first settled in just behind his eyes. It was far from debilitating, a good rest in the dark might have done for it, but there was no rest to be had with Terrors flooding across the ice to _ Erebus _ like Israelites fleeing Pharoah.

“I feel like a boy again,” James had said while he tucked his hair behind his ear, allowing Dr. Stanley to place a strip of vinegar soaked paper on his brow. “I was never sure if the smell of the vinegar was worse than the headache, or indeed if that was not the point.”

“The smell is certainly enough to clear the congestions that can come with headaches, yet I think in this case the chance to sit quietly may do you more good than the cure,” Dr. Stanley had said conspiratorially, and James had smiled as the man had taken a seat at the end of his examination table. “You would have prescribed yourself rest if it were at all possible, so I shall not attempt to.”

“You put more stock than most in my ability to care for my own welfare.”

“They did not see the recovery you made despite all that disease and foul air in China. I had thought we would lose you to typhus or some such before your wounds healed, and within a month there you were up and about as lively as anything.” 

“It was you, oh physician, who warned me not to drink the water. I fancy you simply wished for my half drunk company to liven up the sick room.”

Stanley had smiled at him then, an always rare occurrence but even so James had fancied it looked pained, and had then nodded to James’ arm. “How do the wounds hold up against the cold? Especially the one at your spine?”

“Tender at times, but otherwise nothing settling in against the stove does not cure. A reminder of my mortality _ and _ the skill of my chief surgeon.”

They had spoken while the vinegar had dried on the paper. It had been nothing of much consequence, all things of consequence had been too pressing for an idle conversation between friends, and yet Stanley had been subdued. In fact the doctor had been low-spirited for a while, James had seen this, yet they had all been so in those dark, uncertain, damnable strange months. Dr.Stanley had still been steady in practise and in presence - as steady as when he had efficiently dug the musket ball from James’ back while he himself had been weeping in half delirious agony, sure he would expire from pain and fear alone. 

It was a memory clouded by weakness and laudanum, yet one James had put stock in when he had accepted the man as surgeon upon _ Erebus_. And now that cool headed doctor was dead. Damned man had burnt himself alive and taken a good many with him. 

If the man who had kept his head in the heat and stench of that battle burdened sickbay could break so fully, then James had resolved to shore himself up doubly so against such a thing. Especially not that the ships, and even the men, were begining to fall apart around him.

*******

“...and what of the chocolates?”

“What of the chocolates, Henry?” Irving shot across the table testily. “They hardly sustain a man.”

“It builds a man up in different ways, John. Give him comfort and cheeriness. And, dare I say it, a pep,” Dundy retaliated with a shortness to his usual pleasant demeanour. “Not for long mind you, but it is something, no?” he asked with a hopeful look to James who, in a desire to never see his friend lose any more hope than he needed to, smiled in return.

“I think it might be something. John is right, they will not fill the belly, but in such situations we must also fill the soul,” James blinked down at the most recent list of supplies Irving had complied, fingers shifting in their old nervous habit before he linked them together. “They may also bolster the sick,” he said quickly, as if to outrun the spectre of blood in his hair.

“Is that a sound theory, Dr. Goodsir?” Francis asked. The steady, maybe even pleasant nature of his voice as a sober man surprised James still, at least enough to pull him away from a sombre leaning of his thoughts.

James uncrossed his legs and adjusted to sit properly in his seat as Harry began to speak, hooking his ankles around the legs of the chair like he had as a boy so he could fit his long legs under the table. What was being said, that the men's increasingly desperate need for small comforts must be balanced out by the very real need for nourishing food, was nothing new to James - the temperature might be different from Syria but the peril was very much the same - yet it was something that still needed to be said. As officers who would lead this walk out they must all be fully aware of how short the distance was between life and losing all. How the smallest boost of morale might keep a man alive one day longer, and how losing hope could kill them as surely as disease or this _ Tuunbaq _fellow.

“Then we shall keep the ration as it is, and double it on the nights after hauling. James?”

“Aye. That is sound,” James murmured, frowning through a dull ache in his head. He raised a hand to try and rub it from his temple, and became aware of a pitching in his posture that was sending him in Francis’ direction.

It was not chilled in Erebus' Great Cabin, the six bodies currently inhabiting it were more than enough to keep it bearable, yet James found himself aware of the warmth radiating from the Irishman sat at his elbow. He had felt the heat of whiskey and ire in the man before, in more ways than one, but this was different. More like the comfort of a cup of tea cupped in the palms, or a clean shirt warmed before dressing on a winters morning, and certainly more comforting than the indifferent sources of heat they relied upon for even the smallest respite from the cold.

It was the same sort of mellow warmth James had buried himself in when Francis had finally hauled him back to _Erebus_ after Carnivale, his sweat cooling rapidly between the layers of his costume and making James shiver like a tree in the wind. 

It had been a momentary collapse, and Francis, fresh from the sick bed after his far less dignified whiskey fuelled collapse, had treated him gently. Had continued to be gentle and caring even after James had sought his comfort in ways no man should with another.

James was a captain. He was the man all souls aboard Erebus looked to (had no choice but to look to) and any personal weaknesses or wants would not distract him from his obligation to them. Not now. 

Which was why he now purposefully shifted away from Francis and all that the desire to be near him meant, letting his shoulder rest against Dundy’s as he peered over his arm at the notes he was making. James felt Dundy glance at him, then reach out to the plate of shortbread he had already plundered, picking up two and offering one to James as casually as if they had been bent over their gunnery books aboard _ HMS Excellence _.

James took it from him, feeling somewhat heartened by the gentle familiarity with his friend. He shot Dundy a smile as he took a bite, letting their shoulders knock together upon receiving a toothy grin in return, and they both turned their attention back what Mr. Blanky was saying.

*******

“Mind yeself sir, this patch is thinking about movin’,” _ Erebus' _caulker called out from the front of their little troop, and James looked to the crag of ice being pointed out that was creaking at such a volume it felt like it was rattling right through his head. “Is perilous in this part, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown. I commend you on your feeling for the ice,” James called back, testing a lump just under the snow with his boot as a body came up next to him. It was Corporal Paterson of the Marines, wrapped up so firmly against the frozen air that he was more cloth than man, slipping himself between James and the grinding ice.

James caught the man's eye and nodded his gratitude for the kindness. He was not above thanking a man for showing concern outside of his duty, especially when they were all struggling through the choking mess of the pack. James did not need to be an ice master to know the maze was steadily becoming impassable, blocks of ice as large as hills were being pushed higher and higher into the sky, slowly swallowing them whole. 

The only fixed point in this landscape, the only landmark there had ever been, was _ Terror. _ Her sturdy, tilted form silhouetted against the brooding sky would come into view every so often on the trek across the ice, the sole navigation point during the endless daylight and the only proof that one was not disappearing forever into the whiteness. 

That particular thought was unsettling at the best of times, always coming on worse when the weather was foul or during those months when the night was endless and everything became turned on it’s head. James caught a glimpse of _ Terror’s _ bowsprit as they slipped through an alley in the ice, and remembered trying to rush through this maze after shouting had been heard from _ Terror _ and then later gunfire from the ice. This was months ago now, or maybe weeks - time had been wrapping itself in knots lately - but James remembered with clarity finally making _ Terror _ and seeing, by the swirling light of the aurora which had once brought him so much wonder, dark blood on the ice and smeared down the hull of the ship from where the canvas roof over the deck had been ripped open like a man with a bullet in his guts.

Or rather, ripped open like a man’s skull.

The tragedy that had befallen Private Heather had been the beginning of all that horror. The fuse that was lit by the abomination of Strong and Evans left butchered upon the deck, the paranoia and dread sitting in the hull of _ Terror _ finally erupting bright and hot when the _ Esquimaux _ girl had been dragged aboard. The shouting of the men had been dangerous, sharp with fear and tipping quickly into panic, and all James had been able to think about was how last burdens would fall upon Dundy if the worst had been about to happen on _ Terror_.

James' stride faltered on a compact patch of snow, and he held a hand out to Corporal Paterson before the marine could look to aid him. “I am fine, Corporal. Its hardly the smooth going of Southsea promenade, eh?"

"That depends on the time of night, sir."

James' smile was short but genuine, they had all heard the tales about exploding teeth, and clambered up and over a ridge of ice to follow the path the men were picking out. His feet were becoming cold, and so were the tips of his fingers and the edges of his face, but the effort of walking this half mile was making it uncomfortably hot in his slops, his breath coming in great bouts of steam from his mouth.

It had been cold enough to freeze his welsh wig to his hair that night, and yet he had been pouring sweat as he had made his way back from _ Terror_. He had been appalled, despite his own misgivings about her, by the men's treatment of the _ Esquimaux _ girl, and had become desperate to leave _ Terror _after all he had been forced to witness that night. Desperate for some form of wide open space between him and the blood that ship was now soaked in.

He had followed Lady Silence's sure footing on that journey across the ice that had been groaning as if itself was in agonies, being escorted rather than escorting her to _ Erebus, _and had been too exhausted to give a damn about his pride. His vision had narrowed to contain only her footfall, his thoughts whirling and changing as fast as his high, hard breathing as his lungs had tried to gather as much of the dry frozen air as they could.

The spark of fear had been in his blood and it made him want to run, but there was nowhere to run to. There was only _ Erebus, _where the weight of duty was spreading him thin, or the ice, which was waiting to kill him. No, not waiting, the pack was not some malevolent force, it was simply doing as it had done since the dawn of time. It was they who were unnatural and abhorrent. 

All habitual drunks were vile, even if they were not melancholy with it, and Francis had been allowed to become the vilest. Cruel, violent, slacking in himself and his duties, slipping ever closer to having his command stripped from him by the officers or, more drastically, the opinion of the men, and leaving everyone’s fate in James’ hands that were always stiff with cold these days.

The panic from that night fell away when his little troop of Erebites were finally released from the pack onto the small patch of flat (by comparison) ice beside _ Terror's _ tilted hull. The weak spring sun shining on her took some of the ‘terror’ from her appearance, and yet James found himself not quite able to breathe freely now they had safely reached her. In fact James did not think that he had been able to breathe freely for a good long while now.

Francis' changed demeanour had been like a balm to all, becoming more like the man who had once been Sir John’s friend and who had the affection and confidence of Sir James Ross. He was approachable now, his wilfully standoffish attitude now simply a faint charming shyness. He was firm and fair and steady and, above all, kind. Kind! James had been giving out so much kindness for the sake of morale that he had forgotten how it felt to have his own spirits lifted by the care of a commanding officer. 

James let Paterson lead the way up the snow ramp to the deck of _ Terror_, and was unsurprised to find Francis, along with Blanky, stood beneath the canvas awaiting their arrival. James loosened the collar of his slops, letting out a cloud of steam as the heat and sweat of his body met the frozen air, and returned the warmth of Francis’ greeting. 

There was a light in those startling blue eyes whenever they looked at James these days, a mixture of honest respect and affection that James had only recalled seeing once before from Francis. Which had been the occasion of his only mention of Miss Cracroft.

It had been a good many years since anyone had looked at James with such a candid depth of emotion, and it brought about the thawing of something in James that he had not even realised had become iced in. It was pleasant, all in all, to feel such a way again, yet he could not help fearing what it meant to have a man capable of such weakness and spite, both in action and words, directing such emotion at him. 

All James knew was that he needed to forgive Francis, be it right to do so or not. They could not lead what remained of the expedition if James did not have faith in its commander, and, moreover, he simply needed to have Francis be that landmark he had been looking for since Sir John had disappeared into the ice.

James had been shown easy forgiveness and trust by his men after Carnivale, and he would not shrink from following their example now. He may be in vital need of some goodwill and forgiveness himself before they escaped this place, and was it not natural to need the close presence of another warm soul when things were so dire. To want gentle affections and care when suffering and horror were stalking your every breath.

James met Blanky's jolly eye as he was led below and remembered how the man had seemed to almost regret not butchering Sir John Ross at Fury Beach all those years ago. Who knew what each man was capable of after such a fearful winter, after so much cold and darkness. Who knew what he himself, who could feel the cracks yawning wide as he bled and ached and his thoughts sometimes abandoned him all together, might be capable of.

******* 

It felt peculiar, after months of Erebus holding almost double her ships company, to not have the lower deck packed and noisy like Portsmouth docks when the fleet was in.

They were far from sparse in sailors, owing to a number of _ Terrors _ who had requested to remain aboard _ Erebus _even after Carnivale, yet as James made his way through the crew all lined up for inspection - a speck of normality clung to as all about them span wildly out of their control - he could sense the lighter press of people about him where before he was weaving through men who had packed themselves into every available space. 

“And how goes your reading, Mr. Clossan?" James asked as he stepped in front of the man who had managed to find himself a place near Mr. Wall's stove. 

"I find myself halfway through the Vicar of Wakefield, sir."

"Indeed? And how do you like it?" 

"Landlubbers get themselves into some awful twists and turns, sir. Fills me with gratitude that I am a sailor. "

James couldn't fight down a smile at that remark, and settled on his back foot to allow the man to see it. It had him backing right against the stove, the heat immediately spreading right through his many layers to scratch at his skin.

It was only when he realised that he was pushing into it that James pulled away, the movement sharp enough that it caused Mr. Collins, who was stood at his elbow, to give a full body flinch.

"Sir," he breathed with such an edge of panic that it drew the attention of several of the able seamen and a few of the marines too. It startled James also, who looked into the man's wide eyes and clearly saw in them the precipice of terror that was haunting them all.

"Steady, Mr. Collins," James said softly as he gripped his broad shoulder, ensuring that he was steady also as he held the man's gaze in the hope that some of his steadiness would pass to him.

Once sure Mr. Collins was as calm as he might be James returned his attention to the startled faces before him. "Mr. Clossan, you impressed me so greatly I found myself forgetting my own ship," he tipped his head to Mr. Clossan, ignoring the prickle of what he dearly hoped was sweat that rolled down the back of his neck, then raised his voice to address the men. "An occurrence I should hope all of you who have had duty owing might look to imitate."

He nodded to Mr. Clossan then turned to the man stood next to him, blinking weariness from his eyes as he cast his critical, if not overly searching, gaze over the man from _ Terror_.

The cook's stove was still at his back, making sweat prickle over his shoulders in a way he had not felt since Carnivale, and he wanted to move away more than anything. He held fast though, reminding himself that he could not start or stumble, as for better or for worse he was what the men had to look to as a fixed point on which to hang their hopes of surviving. 

He would never ask a man under his command to do what he would not; if he asked them to stand strong in the face of all that had happened and all that they had stretching out before them, then by God he would show them a man who was doing exactly that.

*******

"_God is in all realms_," Sir John used to say, speaking with enough conviction that even James would sometimes be dragged into believing it. 

He wished he had that conviction now, or even the spark of inspiration to feel it, as he looked out at their gaol; the unending blankness of it, the sterile sea that held them landlocked.

He had never been so alone before. There had never been more than a thin bulwark between him and another living soul for most of his life, and now he found himself with the fine wood panelled walls of the Great Cabin and rows of empty berths between himself and another body. It was hardly a distance, considering the hundreds of miles between them and the closest Inuit or Whaling ships, and yet it yawned about him.

James let his sketching pencil hang lose between his fingers as his tired eyes came to rest on the soft light flickering through the door of the stove. It was the only other sign of life he felt, in this moment, that could possibly exist, and they were trapped together with only this grinding wooden cabin to protect them from the icy night.

He stood, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets as he took a turn about the cabin, his long legs covering the area of the tomb like room in but a few strides. Twenty to be exact, the distance between Erebus and Terror being covered in nearly a thousand strides these days, and over three hundred might take him about the whole of his ship. He tried to recall if as a child he had ever been aware of the distance between the house and the slow moving stream at Rose Hill, that incline William and himself used to tumble down in boyish glee, and found himself unable to recall his brothers’ laughter, or the sound of his voice, or even the landscape clearly. 

James paused when he found he could not recall the green of the grass. Could barely recall what green _was_ in this world of blue and brown and endless whiteness.

The walls of the cabin creaked and James clenched his hands in his pockets. He had not seen the pressure ridges Goodsir had described at the shore, but he felt like he knew them well. The crushing pressure of venerable old ice, laid thick and impenetrable over the deep running waters that had not seen the light of day in years, crushing itself to pieces on the steady shore. That un-shifting point that was the walls of their prison and, if their hope held out, the way salvation lay.

He stood close to the stove, straining to hear another sound of life, his heart beating hard in his chest until he heard the muffled sound of a cough, followed by inaudible words. If he had been on the _ Clio_, or the _ Cornwallis_, or if it had been three years ago he might have sought out the sound, moved amongst the men and talked to them in that personable way his captains had always complimented him on. 

Personable would not save lives, friendliness with the men would not bolster their trust in him. 

"By God, I can not fail them," James whispered to himself, resting his hand upon the beam above his head as he settled into his usual position leaning into heat from the stove, allowing it to warm the wool of his trousers until they began to steam with the ice that settled on all things. 

Dark notions, Blanky had said, civility stripped away as if it had never been there. All James had thought of as he had listened to those words was that caulker's mate on _ Terror_, Mr. Hickey. The man had shown far too much boldness, had been all too proud of his disobedience, and James knew the punishment for such things as well any sailor, yet Francis had been cruel about it.

"_To strip him of his dignity and his manhood so fully in front of his crewmates was punishment enough," _ James had hissed to an uncaring Francis after the debacle was over with. "_But to order the continued brutalisation also, when ten lashes may have been enough to warn the man, is…" _

_ "Warn him? Against what? The disrespect he had already committed?"_

_ "Damn your eyes Francis, you will listen to my complaint. It is intolerable _…"

"_You are not Captain of this ship," _ Francis had growled at him. "_If you wish to run your own as if you are on a pleasant punt up the Thames then you are welcome to. I shall command as I see fit. As is my prerogative." _

It had been like Senhouse on the _ St.Vincent _ all over again, locking James in his cabin for three days over a trifling matter. A captain who knew his power all to well, and used it to bring a man down to the size he thought he should be instead of winning respect by giving it.

Now he was free from the drink Francis had changed his ways, had become the fair minded man James had always hoped this grand explorer he looked up to would be. All his darkness of thought and mood had been thrown to the winds and instead Francis worked to instil hope and confidence in all. Instil trust also, which was something James pondered constantly; whether Francis, or indeed any of the remaining officers, were in any way suitable to be trusted to lead the men out of this place.

“James!”

He started back from the stove as if a gun shot had rung out. A part of his thigh was overly hot from the fire and the shift of his linens against the skin caused enough pain that he was forced out of his morbing.

He blinked at the figure in the doorway, his gaze swimming and unsure, until it settled into the image of Dundy. “Yes, Henry?”

He was giving James a long, searching look, his expression the most carefully blank James had ever seen it as he stepped further into the Great Cabin. “Come along, old boy. The dinner gong has sounded, as it where, and all are gathered and eager to have at it.”

“Oh...is that the time?”

“Catches up with one, doesn’t it,” Dundy said softly, touching James’ arm and drawing him away from the stove. “You may be even less eager for it when you hear that, as Mr. Bridgens is most needed in the sickbay, that it has been prepared by my own fair hand.”

“Good lord.”

“I say, if I’d have known I’d be doing such things I’d never have come along.”

James clenched his teeth against an awful emotion, one that had been calling out to him for days from the bag of Graham's belongings tucked into a draw. The man had survived the China War only to follow James into the arctic in the name of glory and adventure, and now his body lay butchered and un-buried somewhere in the unfeeling ice.

A fate that might touch them all now. Friends he cared for, men who he owed his life to, being burnt through by this place. All that was left was Dundy, who's ever affable smile had become tense.

"Oh come now Jas, I didn't mean it like that and you know it. Where on earth else should I be?" Dundy said as he threw his arm around James and jostled him. "Come to your dinner now. I shan't say that it will improve your mood but it may give you something other to brood about, eh."

"I am becoming Francis."

"He's become a fine fellow after that illness, I will give him that. Yet not as fine as you," Dundy gave James his winning smile as he steered them towards the cabin door. "Now come to dinner, or I shall have to tut you. And be warned, I've a reputation as a vicious tutter."

"If I recall you tutted that Cheetah right off my back."

Dundy laughed, deep and rich, and smacked James on the chest. "There we are, good man."

*******

Softness has no place in the Navy. You are a rough, jolly sailor or a brave and swashbuckling officer, set out on the unforgiving sea in cramped ships that were built for war no matter what they were now used for. An ambassador in both your hardiness and deportment for Britain and her great and mighty Empire.

James snorted as he smoothed his hand over threadbare velvet - more pink now than the vibrant red it had once been - that was pooled over his crossed legs. This was soft, this dress he had found hidden deep down in the hold like some sort of metaphor, and this much lorded, daring, hardy officer was sat upon his cold cabin floor clutching it like it was his mother's skirts. Which was a joke all in itself. 

James picked up one of the sleeves, fingering the laces at the cuffs, and held it up as if to smooth it against his cheek but did not complete the action, instead gripping it tightly until his fingers began to hurt. He found comfort in this dress, and yet he hated it. Had brought it back to his cabin instead of wearing it to Carnival, stamping on it then kicking under his desk in a need to rage against something now that blood was clogging his hair. 

Apparently Christ had sweated blood on the eve of his death. James had never been a consummate believer, nor did he have any illusions as to the very un-Godlike nature of his own father, but he was enough of a sailor to know an ill omen when he saw one. 

James rubbed the sleeve of the dress between his fingers, pushing against the grain of the fabric to feel it prickle against the calluses on his hand, and let out a shuddering breath. 

He had succumbed to this old fancy once, on a night where the smell of burning - burning wood, burning canvas, burning men - had been too strong for James to sleep.

Removing the layers of clothing they all now slept in had not been freeing, just caused him to be wracked with bone deep shivers, goosebumps running all over him when he had dragged the dress over his head. The velvet was heavy and dense, more like his thick woollen jumper than the cotton night shirts he used to wear, and as he had twisted this way and that to make the skirts swirl around his calves he had found himself with a genuine smile on his face for the first time in...he could not rightly say. He had not been able to see himself fully in the looking glass, nor had he wished to, but as he had touched his oddly fragile looking collarbones, and then ran his hands over his waist that seemed so narrow when clothed in only velvet, he had felt so wonderfully free of the responsibilities that were inherent in the layers and stiffness of his uniform.

In the moment it had been a pleasant distraction, a spot of lightness in all this desperation, and he felt guilty for allowing it. It was only natural, he knew that, but Her Majesty's Officers were not expected to bend to such things as nature. 

James finally put the sleeve to his face, breathing deep to steady himself as he let the velvet touch his cheek, letting it slip down to brush against his throat. If he were to put it on now James knew he would weep from exhaustion alone, then weep for those lost, and then finally the horror of what was to come if Fairholme was not on his way with rescue. James did not have to believe it so fully now that Francis was taking the weight of command, and after all that had happened he could not help but prepare himself for the worst.

James was already taking indulgences he should not at Francis’ hands, to give in to this would be too much. If he stepped back from the edge of this pressure ridge he was standing upon then he would never be able to force himself back atop of it, becoming only so much dead weight to be pulled through the wastelands by better men than he.

James buried his face into the bundle of fabric, pressing hard enough as if to suffocate himself, before letting it drop to his lap. His eyes trailed aimless around his cabin, coming to rest on the portrait of his brother William that hung above his bunk. The light was too dull and his eyes too weak these days to make much of it out from where he was sat, and James sighed greatly. 

He pulled himself to his feet, flinging the dress over the back of his chair, not caring who might see his weakness and his sin, and sat at his desk. He pulled close a sheath of paper, or rather half a sheath as they were running low on even that, and began to write. He had been a constant letter writer until recently, letting the envelopes pile up in his draws ready to send when - and then, later, _if_ \- they cleared the Bering sea. 

Those words, his words, would never leave this place. Not those pages and pages he had written in happier times, nor the ones he was writing now, but what should that matter. All had become a farce of normality anyway, so James might as well pretend for a moment that William would read this poorly constructed note and write back his elegant words of comfort and love. Pretend that he might get to say farewell to the only person who had ever known him fully enough to truly love him. 

*******

"I know where this is going. Down to the last detail!" James declared, accidentally knocking the neck of the gin bottle against the rim of his glass. 

"Would _ you _ care to tell the end of the tale, then?"

"Oh lord no, bring it to its natural conclusion please _ meastro. _" 

Francis sat back in his chair, a carefully constructed look of seriousness on his face. "As I was saying - the cow took fright, taking me with it, and bucked me straight into a compost heap."

James had indeed predicted those series of events, but it still had a laugh bursting out of him that grated like ice against the hull. "Head first?"

"But of course."

"The dignity of it! Oh Francis."

"My mother though so. She fair beat the dirt off me." Francis’ tone was light, as if that itself was an amusing part of the anecdote, and it gave James pause. 

He turned to Francis and almost confessed to the modern upbringing, free of beatings and rigid discipline, that he had received from the hands of people who were not his parents yet loved him as if they were. He almost let it all spill forth, the whole scandal of his birth, but he drowned the words with a sip of gin instead.

"You have certainly become better at keeping upright. I commend you."

Francis made a bow over his empty plate. "The first thing they teach you in the navy is to not go tumbling head first from your vessel, you know. "

"Indeed? When I was a boy the first thing they told me was not to attempt to mount an errant cow."

Francis laughed, the sound pleasantly dry and less harsh than the one fuelled by whiskey, and James felt something loosen minutely in his chest.

"You see, that is the…_ ah_, Mr. Bridgens?"

The steward nodded to Francis, then turned his warm eyes on James. "Sir, you allowed the use of some of the dried fruits and such for a last pudding for the men before we walk out."

"I did," James murmured, half dreading what was about to be said next. Had lead been found in the damn fruit, or had a blasted pudding brought about yet another death to add to James' tally.

"The men wished for some to be saved for you. You both, sirs."

"None have gone without?" James asked immediately. 

"No sir. The sick have eaten also."

James did not want to accept, wanted to insist that the weakest amongst them have their share, but for all Bridgens' gentle nature he was also a man who, on occasion, got a look in his eye that would brook no argument. 

"Thank you," Francis nodded graciously, pushing the plates aside to let Bridgens place the dishes in front of them. "And thank the men for the kindness."

“Yes. Please do Bridgens. That will be all,” James watched him go with a friendly smile, although he gripped his cut glass tumbler of gin all the tighter, not sure if he wished it to smash in his hand or not.

Even so, James had never been able to turn down the glory of any pudding, and he dutifully picked up his spoon to set about eating it. As, he noted, did Francis,

“I once complained of your dislike of a good pudding, you know.”

Francis looked surprised by the abrupt statement, glancing down at his bowl before looking back to James. “Complained of it?”

“You picked at my patience since the Orkney’s. I looked up to you and _admire_ _you_ for your career. I wished for your friendship and yet you rebuffed any overtures I had tried to make before we departed. Then rebuffed all my attempts at a professional acquaintance after I accepted that you did not wish for my friendship. On top of which," James said with a forceful wave of his hand. "When Sir John and myself hoped to stem your increasing isolation you made it quite clear how you would wish for any company in the _world_ but my own.” James pulled a face at his glass of gin as he took an unmeasured sip. “I do not mind you hating me, I am not so vain as to think I am inherently likeable, yet you had to poke at it like a sore tooth. Poke at me! And then you would not even eat a pudding that _ your own stewards made _ and I must admit that ran dry my stores of patience. For it was a damn fine pudding! All you did was sit there morbid and soused solely because we had wished for your company.”

“You are likeable,” Francis said after a stunned pause. “I was at fault in my behaviour, and I can only apologise for that. You are the bright shining boy of the Admiralty, James, and I - wrongly - thought you but a bauble that they had sent up here to add some glamour and gilt edge to the Passage," Francis sighed, tracing his fingers along the edge of the table. "I was predisposed to hate you, and I did not allow your virtues to change my mind on that. I know you now to be capable and dependable and as brave as your exploits paint you to be," blue eyes flicked to James and then around the room as Francis gave what he must have hoped was a casual shrug. "As well as being handsome and charming.”

James made to adjust his hair then dropped his hand down onto the table top, clenching it into such a tight fist that his nails dug into his palm. Handsome, how laughable. He was losing weight noticeably now, it would not be long before he could be classed as gaunt, and he would wager that James Ross had never bled from his hairline. His looks were nothing he had ever put much stock in keeping, a naval career did not leave one well preserved and youth did much for ones appearance, yet to lose it now, to the slow death of scurvy, was nothing he had prepared himself for. 

It should not matter, and yet James was only human - so it did. 

James did not raise his eyes from the pattern on his plate as Francis stood and brought his chair closer to him. “James…” he began softly, hesitating with his hand over James’ leg. He had touched James in far more familiar ways and places than this, and had allowed James’ hands and mouth the same liberties with his person, yet here, over dinner, when passions and desperation's were not overflowing, the touch would carry a weight far greater than mere bodily weaknesses. 

James held his gaze as Francis purposefully rested his hand on his knee, feeling a tremble run through him when his thumb moved over the shape of it. A knee was a knee, there was nothing inherently romantic about it, yet Francis’ touch was so tender that James felt it intently. 

“Was that all that was needed to end your incessant stories? A compliment,” Francis said lightly, sparing James a quirk of his mouth as he moved his hand to rest on James’ thigh. 

He flinched, unprepared for the stab of pain even though he had been slowly inflicting it upon himself for weeks. 

A kind of stricken panic crossed Francis’ face, a desperate look that the man had never once shown himself capable of. It startled James as much as the stab of pain had, and for a moment they simply stared at one another until a flicker of realisation dawned in Francis's eyes. 

“James,” he said with the grave sincerity of a captain to a midshipman, and James found himself habitually caught by it. “Le Vesconte came to me with a worry the other day.”

“Oh?”

Francis sighed, glancing to the stove burning low in the corner of the room, and James felt a cold prickle of shame go through him. “You have been under a tremendous strain since Sir. John died, not helped by myself or this place. What has happened here affects us all in strange and dark ways.”

“I am not mad,” James said quietly, and did not see anything but sincerity in Francis’ face when he nodded in agreement. 

“I know, but I think you have made a pain you feel into something real,” Francis was still very much using the tone of a captain, and James knew that what was to come next would be paramount to an order. “You can either have Bridgens look at it, or myself. But it will be seen to.”

James nodded grimly, knocked back the rest of his gin, then pulled up his now loose-fitting jumper and waistcoat to get to the buttons of his braces. He sighed once the job was done, flexing his stiff fingers, and batted Francis’ hands away when he tried to tug his trousers down. This was not a passion and neither was James an invalid; he could pull his own trousers down to his knees for goodness sake, and he gave Francis a sour look as he did so.

The patch of irritated pink skin, burnt to a state that was almost like meat, stood out bright and accusing atop his pale thigh. James could remember as a boy of fourteen, when the _ Pyramus _ had been at anchor in Lisbon, becoming golden brown while the Sailing Master had taught him to swim in the Tagus river, and years later turning so nut brown while in Syria that he had been mistaken for a Turk. Now he was as transparently pale as any fine, fainting lady.

Francis did not admonish or disprove, simply went about tugging an abominably clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Something cold needs to be put on this,” he said matter-of-factly, all business as he dunked the handkerchief into the jug of ice melt on the table. “Luckily we are not lacking in that area."

He was gentle as he laid the cloth over the damaged skin, and it was so shockingly, brightly cold that it shunted James out of the melancholy stupor that had been clouding his mind for days and days on end.

“There is always burning -” James heard himself mutter, tongue loosened either by the gin or by Francis. “The sugar refineries of Barbados, the Chinese soldiers falling upon their matchlocks, and now…I already knew the smell of burning flesh before I came to this place and the screams of those burning, but now it comes with the faces of people I know. It’s my fault. I could not see that darkness had crept up on Dr. Stanley, I acted too late, I should have spoken to Blanky earlier. I should have…”

“What happened with Dr. Stanley was not your fault, James. You have been running a crowded ship for months, while I was no help at all - you could not look to every man. You are not a god, as some captains would believe of themselves, merely an officer. And a damn fine one too; for the care you have for the men, and ease with which you keep order are as exemplary as your record states.”

James nodded, his fingers fidgeting nervously. “Mr. Collins is very out of sorts Francis. He has been for a while, and I don't know how to help him. I don’t know if he can be helped,” James pressed the heels of his hands against his blurring eyes as his head began to ache. “Oh good christ,” James muttered, pitching forward to bury his face in Francis' shoulder. 

Was he to become a wreck like Mr.Collins or succumb to melancholy like Dr. Stanley, or would he simply break open at the seams and become yet another problem to be patched.

“James,” Francis spoke the word as if it was not an overused afterthought of a name, turning it into something dear and respected, and gripped his upper arms. James dully registered a shooting pain on is left bicep, but before he could give it much thought he was being lightly embraced. “All will be well, James. We have suffered the worst of it.”

It was the platitude of a commander for his men, and James clung to it as if he were a nervous ship's boy. 

After some more whispered encouragements, with James’ face pressed into Francis’ neck so he might steal all his uncommonly pleasant warmth, he found himself redressed and moved into his cabin, Francis helping him to perch on the side of his bunk.

“I do not wish for you to leave,” James heard himself saying, his voice sounding loud and ungainly to his own ears.

“James...”

“Who out here would hang us for laying together? God’s judgement cannot touch a place He has abandoned, if he is anywhere at all.”

Francis made to speak, then shook his head with the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “I suppose so,” he agreed quietly, and nodded his assent. 

James dropped sideways onto his bunk, shifting about so he was not laying upon the twinge in his ribcage and drew up his long legs so Francis could join him.

They had been closer than this, hands touching places that had never truly felt the icy bite of frozen air until chilled fingertips had dragged over them. Yet those times had not been as strangely intimate as this, bodies unaccustomed to accommodating the presence of another curling and tangling together so they might share the same space and the same air. James had his cheek resting upon the worn soft shoulder of Francis’ coat, his fingers playing with the buttons as Francis ran his hand up and down James’ arm in slow, soothing motions. 

It was a wonderful farce of the intimacy and affection that James had always known he would never have. Not ever, and certainly not now. 

He curled more tightly into Francis and, after what might have been an age, a kiss was dropped onto his ragged hair that made his scalp sting. He craned his head back to look at Francis, vaguely dreading the sight of his own blood smeared on his face, and found the man looking embarrassed at having been detected. 

James watched as Francis' embarrassment became a scowl, no doubt in a fit of anger at himself for the action, and reached up to smooth it away. His hand was not trembling, even though James left like he was about to shake to pieces, and he let his fingers map out the curve of Francis’ cheekbone and the dimple in his chin.

The kiss he received on his cheek was chaste and fleeting, more the peck of a nervous young man than an old sea dog,and it made James smile.

He dropped his head back onto Francis’ chest and felt the smile fall from his lips. His tired eyes dropped out of focus as he listened to the silence, that endless maddening silence that made his head ache so, and moved his leg so that marred patch of skin on his leg was pressing against Francis.

He let the pain sit for a moment, then pulled away. There would be time enough for agonies later he suspected, and he thought he might dare, for a moment, let those pressure ridges collapse back into the free flowing sea and allow himself to finally breathe freely.

*******

Fairholme had been dead all this time, his head set upon an ice ridge like a display of ornaments in a front parlour. Or so James had been told, he had looked into the face of each mutilated man and had not been able to recognise the one that Francis had identified as his friend.

James could not remember what he looked like, could not rightly say what any of those they had lost over the sprawling winter had looked like if he were to be honest, and it hurt his head so when he tried to recall them. His head bothered him all the time now, no doubt the beginnings of the same pain that had driven Morfin to get his brains blown all over the shingle. 

Not that he could speak of James’ demise to anyone - the other James, Fairholme, yet another in _ Erebus’ _ collection - for in the name of morale he was now in the business of outright lying to not only the men but his other officers. Francis might not be right to keep the lack of incoming rescue a secret, or it might be what saved them all, James was too exhausted and aching to tell. 

He was certainly keeping his own secrets, such as the way his eyes were beginning to fail after too much use, or his fear that if Inuit aid was not soon found his left arm would become lame as scurvy ate through his old bullet wounds. 

“Captain Fitzjames!” was spoken loudly enough for James to wince, and he peered at Jopson who was hovering just inside the entrance to his tent. 

“Sorry, Thomas. I was miles and miles away.”

“As we will all be soon, sir,” Jopson smiled, as pleasant and good natured as ever. “Captain Crozier has tasked me with gathering officers for a meeting.”

“Ah. Consider me gathered then, I shall make my way to the command tent.”

“Sir,” Jopson bobbed and flitted back out of the tent, James making sure he closed his eyes so the flash of daylight would not hurt them. 

Miles and miles away, James thought as he concentrated on fastening every button on his coat. The chances of them ever leaving here were slipping away by the hour, and James was not sure if he ever would.

*******

"Please, please don't lift me," James begged, voice cracking on every word. "Please, just leave me. It's no good, it's not worth..."

"James," Francis' voice was soft but far from steady, cutting through James' distress and drawing his clouded attention towards him. "It will hurt, I know this. Mr. Bridgens and myself will be quick, we promise, and then you might rest on a more suitable bed that this boat."

James closed his barely functioning eyes, feeling the words "_I'm dying, it's not worth the effort_" become stuck in his throat. Men were watching and listening, and even in this half rotten state James still had a duty to their morale at least.

Nelson had taken his wounds with as much dignity as drowning in your own blood might allow, so James could do nothing less. 

He nodded slowly, vaguely aware of Goodsir - who had come stumbling towards them over the horizon at some hazy point before now - flitting about like a gadfly as Mr. Bridgens eased his arms under James' body.

Even that was agony, a searing pain shooting through his back like white hot needles and clenched his teeth against it, feeling another come loose.

"I'm sorry sir, it'll only be a moment." 

"That's all right John," James breathed, hardly able to brace himself before he was being lifted like he was no more than sack cloth.

It felt like every bone and joint in his body was smashed and their sharp edges were grinding against one another, the agony stealing his breath so he could barely make a sound as he was gently lowered over the side of the boat.

"There we are," Francis said as he took his weight, such as it was. "Only a short distance to the tent James, although my walking will hurt you. I am sorry."

James nodded, glad he was not delirious so he wouldn't start waxing lyrical about how perfectly warm he was. He let his head roll to rest upon Francis' arm, greedy for his body heat and his reliable sturdiness as he tried to relax into the torture that was to come.

Every step Francis took was knives in his flesh, and James couldn't keep down the useless moans and cries any more than he had been able to while being hauled in that boat. A bullet would be kinder than this, and so would leaving him to die in the dirt like a dog.

"There now, old boy," he heard Dundy say, and managed to focus his eyes long enough to see him standing over James, shielding him from the remaining men. “Have you laid up like a prince of Araby in no time."

James wasn't sure if he remembered being set down, or being tended to, or the comings and goings of a camp. He was half sure he might have died at one point, or maybe his suffering had become so encompassing that it no longer meant anything to his wasted and pitiful body.

Death was always said to be as cold and barren as the world they had inhabited for the past three years, but James had been warm. So wonderfully warm, and through his daze he found the source of the warmth to be heavy and soft and stinking of animals, which was a damn sight more rosy than how he smelt. To be frank it was a dam sight better than how any of them smelt - the whole lot of them ripe enough that they could probably catch the odour all the way in Portsmouth. 

Which was such a flighty, ridiculous thought, wholly free of the spectre of pain, that James snapped his eyes open and found himself looking up at Harry and a man he did not recognise.

They both blinked back at him, seemingly as surprised by his conscious state as James was to see a fresh, unnaturally healthy face. Harry recovered first, and leant over James to tell him what he hardly dared to believe. "The Hudson Bay Company has come for us, Captain. This is Dr. Jenkins, and you will be well again."

James had not had the wherewithal to realise what such things as 'rescue' and 'wellness' truly meant, so had turned his attention to the new doctor and rasped. "I do not think I am able to shake your hand, sir."

"With how well your wounds heal I am sure you will soon, and I will be glad to, Captain Fitzjames. But first I must ask you to drink this concoction, a fine mix of nettle oil, lime juice, and laudanum."

"Sounds vile," James breathed on an exhale. "But I’ll manage it.”

"Good man!"

Time passed in fits and starts for James, the only set points his decreasing doses of lime and laudanum and when Francis would come and spend what passed for nights with him. They had huddled together against the cold enough times that it had become second nature to have Francis tucked against his back, a strong hand often resting over James' heart or, more recently, his clean bandages. 

James might have placed his hand there himself on some occasions, he was not sure of many things anymore, but he was certain that, despite being pleasantly warm all the time now, there was still something heartening about the presence of another.

Some of the men looked in on him occasionally, and of course Dundy would come and visit him daily. James existed in a haze most of the time, kept drugged for the pain and to allow his body to rest, but he was always glad of Dundy’s visits. His rich voice would cut over the snap of the tent canvas in the breeze and the murmur of voices that some days might as well be the creak of a ship and the rumble of the ice.

He listened when he could, and always managed a word or two, but it was only after what might have been a week that James had enough strength, and the energy, to give anything Dundy was saying his full attention.

"...of course the fellow was a swaggering braggart. Good lord, the things he would come out with! Enough to make even the most conscientious dock side...well, _you know,_ blush I'd wager. Of course some of the things you or I have done are outlandish, this expedition chief amongst them, yet I would not count either of us as such roister doister’s…"

“Good lord Dundy, perish that thought at once!" James was surprised at the strength of his own voice, turning towards the sound of a gasp and the crunch of rocks as Dundy moved closer, gently taking one of James' hands in his.

"Jas! Oh my dear fellow how are you?"

"I feel," James groaned, touching his fingers to his forehead, "as if I've drunk far too much rough champagne."

"I say! Not the swill they serve at the Admiralty?"

"The very same."

"Good lord, you must feel fair brutal old boy."

James blinked at Dundy, letting his eyes rest on his friend until his form became wonderfully distinct, then returned his cracked smile. "As brutal as you look. Dear me, you'd give the ladies a fright."

Dundy threw his head back and laughed, the first genuine one James had heard in a while, then tilted forward until his brow brushed James' shoulder. "Not as much of a fright as you gave me," he whispered, his shoulders rising and falling sharply when James raised his shaking hand to touch the back of his head softly.

"I should be offended that you thought I'd pop off in such a damnably dull way."

"You've managed to cock snooks at death on every continent now, eh?" Dundy sat up so James might see the happiness on his face, giving James' hand a squeeze as movement at the tent flap drew their attention.

It was Francis, no doubt with James' next dose of lime and water along with some food, and James felt his breath catch in something other than pain as met the gentleness in his clear gaze.

"I feel, knowing you two, that I have walked in on a plot for mischief," Francis observed with a smile as he stepped into the dull light if the tent. "And I shouldn't think anyone would be able to stop you."

"We were discussing who would frighten the ladies more, myself or James. Although if a lady were present here there would be more to give her fright than simply our appearance. Why, our state of dress alone is alarming, there is not one cravat between us!"

James laughed, then began to cough, and Dundy scrambled to his feet to allow Francis to kneel beside him and bring water to his lips. The lime stung at the raw parts of his mouth still, but it was blissful compared to his state not so long ago.

"Marvellous thing this lime juice," James said between sips. "Could do with some rum in it, though."

James managed a grin as Francis gave him an indulgent look that turned into a smile that was sweetness itself.

"Hear, hear!" Dundy declared. "I shall put it to the doctors post haste." 

His now shockingly grey head poked over Francis' shoulder as he waved goodbye to James, letting in a beam of bright sunlight into the tent when he ducked outside.

"It is good to see you are more like yourself, James," Francis spoke as softly, as if James were still upon his death bed, but he found that he did not mind.

James stretched out his wounded arm, wincing at the stiffness in the muscle, then reached out grasp Francis' arm. "When I no longer feel as if I have been hauled bodily over rough ground for mile after mile, then I shall agree with you." He let his eyes rest on Francis, noting how haggard his careworn face had become, and moved his trembling hand to touch his cheek. "How do you fare, Francis?"

"Well enough. Much better for seeing clarity and cheerfulness from you."

James swallowed, taking another sip of water, and glanced at the bowl of something rich smelling that Francis had set beside him. 

The man had been overworking himself no doubt. James would be very surprised if Francis was not spending his days visiting each of the sick and helping the doctors in any way he could. It would do no good for their commander to run himself into the ground, not now, and although James was most definitely on the sick lists he could not abide neglecting his duty as Francis' Second, nor indeed as his friend.

Under Francis' disproving gaze he struggled at first onto his elbows, then, ignoring the pain in his back, pulled himself to sit upright, letting a spell of dizziness clear before motioning to the bowl. "If you mean to help me gulp down that no doubt delightful broth, how about I entertain us both with a story?"

Francis raised an eyebrow, but that smile was still tugging at his mouth. "If I must. What will you regale me with? The Cheetah? The ruckus at Kensington Palace involving a Bishop?"

"I say Francis," James said in his most precise voice. "Have you ever heard me tell of how a Chinese sniper shot me in '42, and that the wound would almost kill me again six years later while I searched for the Nor'west Passage?"

Francis' smile listed before finally sinking. He swallowed hard as he grasped James' hand, hesitated, then bent to kiss his knuckles. "One day I would listen with rapt attention to every word, but not at this moment. You were all but dead a week ago, I cannot…"

"That was an ill timed jest, I am sorry Francis."

"No James. I would not take your joy from you, do not apologise." 

"Nor I yours," James whispered. He clapped his free hand atop of Francis', licked his sore lips, then asked. "How about Birdshit Island? I’ve been reliably told that it's a capital story."

**Author's Note:**

> well I thought the end was funny, and I couldn't put James through all that without letting him have the last whitty remark.
> 
> you can find me at pianodoesterror on tumblr if you want.


End file.
